by L.J. Shen
“So why is this part not ironic anymore?” I ask.
“Because I don’t feel so unlucky right now.” He moves his eyes from the road, his gaze finding mine.
My throat closes on a declaration. I like you, Malachy Doherty. More than I should. Definitely more than my half-sister allows me to.
I turn toward the window, clearing my throat. “Do you like her? Is that why you’re afraid of hurting her?”
“Sure. I like her fine.”
“You’re playing with her feelings.”
“She enjoys it.”
“She enjoys having her heart broken?” I blink, incredulous.
I’m concerned about what it says about him that he’s using Kathleen as blood sport. No matter what I feel about my half-sister, she doesn’t deserve it.
He stares back at the road, rolling his bottom lip with his teeth. “Between being ignored and being toyed with, Kathleen would prefer the latter, which is why she’s at my door twice a week. Look, I tried telling her it isn’t going to happen. She cried. She broke things. She even slept outside my door one winter night. This is what she wants. A sliver of hope to hold on to. I think Kath is a grand lass, but I don’t fear her capabilities over me. Isn’t that the essence of love? Find someone worth killing for? Someone with the power to ruin you?”
Silence stretches between us. I always thought of love as something sweet, fun—not melancholic, dark, and all-consuming. Then again, I’ve never imagined I’d fall in love.
“You, on the other hand…” He taps the steering wheel. “You can slay me any day of the week.”
“So, you can kill Kathleen, and I can kill you?” I ask, watching the landscape zip by. “That’s a morbid way to look at things.”
The fields sprawl like bed sheets under the darkening sky. Tomorrow I’ll see them in full daylight, and then I’ll never see them again. I have nothing to look for here. Ireland turned out to be a sweet, unfulfilled promise.
“Life’s morbid. Spoiler alert—we all die at the end.” Malachy shrugs.
“Well, I’m a pacifist, so don’t worry about me. I’ll never kill you.” I turn back to face him.
He smiles a sad smile I haven’t seen on him before, takes my hand, and kisses my knuckles, his eyes still on the road. The energy I felt earlier when our hands touched returns, and I can’t put a name to it, but it’s electric. Tangible. It even has a taste.
“You already have.”
Mal carries my suitcase to his car, then proceeds to spend the next hour arguing with the hotel’s receptionist, trying to get them to let me go without paying for the night I’ve booked. The receptionist looks to be in her mid-fifties, baggy-eyed, with no patience to spare. They each ping-pong the merits of their argument. I take Mal’s hand and tug, pleading for him to drop it. I’ll pay. I don’t care about the money. (Actually, I do, but I care more about not wasting the few hours I still have in Ireland watching them argue over my bill.)
Mal shakes me off and continues bickering with the woman. He tells her to climb inside my skin and walk in it, referencing—I shit you not—To Kill a Mockingbird. I want to simultaneously hide under a rock and kiss him silly.
“This girl right here came all the way from New Jersey to mourn the father she never met.” He points at me. “Her hostel reservations got cocked up, and she checked in here only to have somewhere to put her suitcase.”
“Sir, I understand, but we have policies in place…” she argues.
Mal lets out an exasperated sigh and takes his wallet out of his back pocket. He throws a stack of bills onto the counter.
“You win. I hope this makes you very happy and pays for your boss’ Ibiza villa and three illegitimate children with his secretary.”
The woman looks down at the notes scattered between them. “Actually, sir, it’s three hundred euros per night.”
“Holy F…forks.” He sucks in a breath, throwing more notes at her, plus a few gum wrappers, a handful of coins, and what looks like a fortune from a cookie. He turns around and grabs my hand.
We gallop out to the chilly street. My heart is pounding in my chest.
“You didn’t have to do that. I’ll pay you back.”
“Like hell you will, darlin’.”
He turns to me, and to my amazement, he is all smiles. In fact, he looks like nothing happened. Totally over it.
“Aren’t you mad?” I blink.
“What about?”
“Uh…spending all the money you’ve earned this week for a room we won’t be using, for one thing.”
He waves me off, laughing now. “That was a minute ago. It’s time to move on. Don’t let the little things in life bother you, yeah?”
Crazy as it sounds, I get what he means. Life is too short to get caught up in the small things.
We get into his car and drive back to the village. When we pass Kathleen’s house on the way to his farm, I can’t help but sneak a peek at her window. She’s not there.
We get to his Tudor-style cottage, which is white with black logs running across it, a dark roof, and a heavy oak door that’s thoroughly chipped. It looks small, but in a charming, quaint way, at least in the dark. We fight bushes and overgrown grass that lash at our ankles as we make our way to the door.
“Mam’s in Kilkenny visiting my big brother, Desmond, so it’s just you and me,” he says.
“That’s cool that you have an older brother.” I watch the back of his head as he pushes the old door with his shoulder, applying force. It whines open, and we pour into his living room. Wide-plank floors, wrought-iron lighting, and salvaged wood everywhere tell me I’m no longer in America. Save for the tattered orange-yellow couch and flat TV, this place could pass as a Regency household.
“Six,” he says, dumping his keys into a vase by the door before turning around and pulling me into his arms.
I melt in his hands. “You have six brothers?” I burrow into his heat, torn between astonished and jealous.
He shrugs. “Six siblings. Five brothers and one sister. Catholic family, you see. Dez is the oldest. I’ve also got five nieces and four nephews. Don’t get me started about the pets.”
I clear my throat. “And your dad?”
“Kicked the bucket young. Heart attack at forty. I was a wee boy when he died. Joke’s on him because I don’t remember him enough to miss him.”
“I’m sorry,” I say anyway.
He takes my hand and leads me to the narrow, old kitchen with a yellow, decaying breakfast nook. He pushes another door open, and we spill into his backyard, which I can see is huge, even in the dark. There are a few divided paddocks where they must keep the cattle.
I can’t imagine Mal as a farmer. Clearly, he can’t imagine himself one, either, because he prefers to perform on the street for a living. He leads me to a patch of grass and tells me to stall the ball. He disappears into his house and comes back with blankets, a bottle of whiskey, and an orange pack of something called Hobnobs. We lie on the grass next to each other, staring at the stars as they fade into the clouds.
“Do you believe in God?” I munch on a chocolate-covered cookie. It’s so much easier to ask weird questions when darkness engulfs you. I can see a glorious Mal-smile cracking in my periphery.
“When it suits me.”
“When does it suit you?”
“When I need to have a word with Him or when Ireland needs a prayer during the World Cup games. My turn to ask a question.”
I already roll my eyes, psychic that I am.
“Why don’t you like your scar?”
Birthmark, I itch to correct. “How do you know I don’t like it?”
“You didn’t want to talk about it,” he says.
I sigh. “There’s nothing to like about it. It’s ugly. It stands out.”
“It’s the most beautiful thing about you. It makes you more than a generically beautiful face,” he says.
I shake my head. I don’t want to think about it. “My turn. Do you sometimes feel like we’r
e all just burning alone?”
“All the time,” he croaks. “Less so when I’m with you, though. My turn—have you ever climaxed with a guy?”
I choke on crumbs from my cookie, twisting my head to him with a frown. He still stares at the stars, completely serene.
“What the hell, Mal?”
“I’m sorry, is that more intimate than asking if I believe in God? ‘Sides, you’re never going to see me again, remember? Who will I tell? My arsehole sheep?”
He’s right. Our little world has an expiration date.
“No. I mean, I’m not a virgin. I just…anyway, no. I think I’m too inside my head when I’m intimate with a dude. My turn,” I say quickly.
I hate that he’s smiling. I hate that his smile makes every inch of my flesh tingle. But most of all, I hate that he illuminates all my senses, like a drug, and soon, I’ll have to quit him.
“Do you really hate money?” I ask.
“Loathe it,” he confirms. “I’ll never make large sums of it. Knowingly, anyway.”
“So, Kathleen was right? You can sell your songs and don’t?”
He tilts his head toward me, cupping my cheek. Fire licks at the inside of my belly. “Not needing money makes you rich in another way, Rory. A better way. The less you depend on it, the less it limits you. My turn—do you think you’ll marry a rich, boiled-balled man when you’re older?”
“Boiled-balled?” I laugh.
He takes a swig from the whiskey, but still stares at me, dead serious. “Yeah. Rich men like taking flying classes. It boils their balls, and then they blame their wives for not being able to conceive when actually their sperm count is in the shitter. I’ve read about it at the dentist’s while I was waiting to get my teeth cleaned.”
“Thanks for the anecdote.” I try to stifle a giggle. “No, I’ve no plans to marry a rich guy. Why?”
“Because I don’t want you to, and you have that something that drives men crazy.”
“What’s that?” I eyeball him.
He shrugs, taking my hand in his and kissing my open palm. “You’re cool.”
“Have you ever been in love?” I lick my lips.
“Ask me that question tomorrow before you go. My turn. Ever had an orgasm from a kiss?”
“Excuse me?” My eyebrows shoot up to my forehead.
His face cracks with a mischievous grin that lights up the entire backyard. It shines right into me, keeping me warm. “You heard me.”
“No,” I hiss, narrowing my eyes at him. Is he for real? I just told him I hadn’t orgasmed with a guy.
Mal leans down and thumbs my cheek, the rest of his fingers curling around the back of my neck. He feathers his lips against mine. I let him, my eyes still open, guarded and waiting. He darts his tongue out and licks the tip of my nose unexpectedly.
I snort out a laugh, letting my guard down. “That’s not gonna do anythi—”
Mal slams his mouth against mine, and before I know what’s happening, he’s on top of me, pinning my wrists above my head in the damp, cold grass. I groan into his mouth as I feel his body cover mine completely in all the places that matter, because he is hard and hot everywhere, the opposite of my cold, soft self. It’s like we aren’t even made out of the same material.
His tongue finds mine, and somehow—somehow—they dance together sensually and in perfect unison, like we’ve practiced it before. He is an excellent kisser, pulling me into a swirl of passion that makes me blind with need. I feel my panties becoming damp and sticking to my body. This kiss, this kiss is everywhere, down to my curled toes, and just when I’m starting to believe in his orgasm-from-a-kiss silent promise, he lets go of my wrists and pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“You didn’t make me come,” I rasp through swollen, numb lips. It’s more of an accusation than a taunt. Almost a whine.
“Are we going to sleep together tonight, Rory?” he asks seriously, looking away.
“It…it’s not your turn to ask a question,” I stutter.
He is the most direct person I’ve ever met, and I don’t know what to make of it.
“I’ll owe you one. Now answer.”
This time, he turns to look at me, and our eyes meet in the dark. The grass is crisp and dewy, even under the blanket. It’s chilly, but for once, that’s not the reason goosebumps blossom all over my skin. My breath catches in my throat. Jesus.
“I want to,” I confess.
The muscles of his neck move when he swallows.
“But we shouldn’t, should we?” I whisper. “Not when we already like each other so much.”
“I don’t know,” he rasps. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering what you feel like.”
His hand drags down to my neck, wrapping around it, and he leans forward, kissing me so softly, I shudder from the delicacy of his touch. His tongue slides into my mouth, and he rolls on top of me, his hands caressing every inch of my body—my arms, my shoulders, my waist, my stomach…my breasts. He bunches my jacket and hoodie up and flicks a puckered nipple through my shirt. I’m wearing a sports bra, but the chill and the moment make everything in my body impossibly tense and erect and needy.
We groan at the same time, so he flicks it again. Then he moves back up to kiss me, and we smile into each other’s mouths. I don’t know how it happens, but all my upper layers—jacket, hoodie, top—find themselves thrown beside us. He unclasps my bra with one hand, while shoving the other into my corduroys.
“Anyone ever touched you there?” he asks, brushing his middle finger along my slit. I jolt in pleasure, clenching everywhere.
“Yeah.” My mouth waters.
“And like this?” He dips his finger into me, and we can hear how wet I am. I turn maroon between his arms.
“Hmm-mm. My ex-boyfriend, Taylor.”
“Did Taylor do this, too?” He drags his wet finger to my clit, massaging it in slow circles.
I throw my head back, closing my eyes. It’s not that Taylor didn’t know where to touch me. I’ve just always felt too removed from the moment to fully enjoy it. Like I was putting on a sexy act. This? I feel this. Everywhere. I’m delirious, hot and wet underneath him. Mal takes my left nipple into his mouth and sucks. Stars explode behind my eyelids like fireworks. Everything tightens with delight. I like that he thinks about me first. I like that he is still fully clothed. I like that he knows exactly what he’s doing—even if that means he’s practiced on other girls. On many girls, no doubt.
“God,” I moan.
“Partial about him, remember?” Mal jokes, kissing his way up from my breasts to my shoulders and neck, biting and teasing me as I begin to buck my hips forward and ride his hand that’s shoved inside my pants. He rubs my clit back and forth faster, and I prepare to explode. He dips two fingers into me and lets out a groan. Then, when my climax hits me from my toes to the top of my head, he reaches into my bag with one hand, takes the camera out, and snaps a picture of my face as I come.
He captures me in such a vulnerable moment, I want to scream at him, but when he dumps the camera on the quilt next to us and looks down, I let it go. He doesn’t look smug or happy or offhanded about it. He looks…tortured.
“Rory.”
“Hmm?”
“I made you come.”
I blink, looking down at my wrinkled corduroys pushed halfway down my thighs.
“And you’re going to make me come now,” he says. “Hopefully after I put my dick inside you. Feck, I can’t stop staring at you. You’re beautiful.”
He unbuckles his belt, lowers his pants, flips his wallet open, and begins sheathing himself with a condom. I kick my corduroys down, refusing to dwell on the fact that he has condoms ready at any given moment.
I don’t get a good look at his penis, purposefully avoiding eye-to-dick contact. Penises freak me out. Especially uncircumcised ones. They look like sweater sleeves curled inwards after a wild ride in the washing machine.
When he’s all wrappe
d up, he looks down at me, his arms braced on either side of my head.
I blush, covering my face. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“With a grin that says you pissed in the Jacuzzi everyone’s chilling in and got away with it. You gave me an orgasm; you didn’t discover the cure for cancer.”
“Night’s still young,” he jokes, dropping a kiss at the crown of my head. “Ready?” he asks, angling himself between my legs.
God, yes. I nod.
He thrusts into me, our eyes lock, and when he starts to move inside me, almost shyly—and definitely not as smoothly and skillfully as I’d imagined—we find out Taylor didn’t really do a stellar job taking my virginity after all.
I squirm. Mal gasps. He kisses me with so much passion, I can feel his kiss twisting my stomach in delicious, messy knots.
Without warning, he presses a hand to my left breast, frowning and looking skyward, still inside me.
“What…?” I trail off before realizing what he’s doing.
I told him I’d sleep with him tonight over my dead body. I can’t help but giggle underneath him.
“Still breathing,” he confirms, diving down for another ravenous kiss. “And oh, how alive you are against my fingertips.”
“It hurts,” I moan into his open, welcoming mouth, clinging to his shoulders.
“Don’t worry, Princess Aurora,” he growls, hot and velvety and alive against my skin. “I’ll make sure to rock your castle if it’s the last thing I do.”
2:00 am
I stir awake in Mal’s bed. The room is so dark—no light from lampposts or passing cars or electronic devices—there’s no difference between opening my eyes and closing them. I feel his hot, wet tongue between my thighs, lashing hungrily as it swirls deeper between my legs.
“What are you doing?” I moan.
“Tasting you.” He dips his tongue into my folds, and I squirm with pleasure. “Christ on a cracker, Rory. You taste like heaven.”
“Mal, what are you…”
But then his tongue brushes my clit, and his lips clamp down on it, sucking. I squeeze my thighs against his face and grab his hair, arching against the pillow and moaning as I press his head into me.